“Great,” I say. “Everyone wants me to end up brokenhearted and miserable so that America can be entertained.” I have visions of people across the nation popping popcorn and celebrating the fact that Corey and I are broken up. They’ll have, like, office polls or something to pick the date of the big breakup, just like they do for the score of the Super Bowl.

“It’s not like that, Ally,” Grant says. “You got picked for certain reasons, and your relationship was probably one of them. But who cares? Just because that might have had something to do with you getting on the show doesn’t mean anything bad is going to happen.”

“You’re right,” I say, staring down the girls in the corner determinedly. “It’s not.”

NOW

Walking home from lunch with Grant, I started to feel for the first time that maybe coming on the show hadn’t been the best idea. I was beginning to realize that blending in was going to be impossible. How was I supposed to meet any cool, new college friends with those stupid cameras following me? Would they even allow cameras at frat parties?

Plus, it was a bit disconcerting to think that my relationship with Corey was the reason I got cast. I mean, it’s not like it never crossed my mind that it may have had something to do with it. Mike the producer’s eyes had lit up when I mentioned the fact that Corey and I had been together for two years, and he practically had an orgasm when I told him Corey was a college basketball player. But I never thought that could be the only reason they would cast me. I mean, how stupid was that? We were strong, we loved each other, and a little distance wasn’t going to change that. I was convinced we could outlast this, and whatever else was put in our way. But then Corey met Jen, and everything changed.

THEN

Two weeks later, I’m lying on my bed doing some reading for my psych class when Simone walks slowly into our room, a weird look on her face.

“Something horrible is happening,” she says, sitting down on the edge of my bed. She’s wearing a light blue hooded sweatshirt and a pair of dark jeans. Her cheeks are red, like she’s been out in the cold, even though it’s seventy degrees out.

“Wow,” I say. “Like what?”

“Yeah,” Jasmine echoes from the other side of the room where she’s sprawled on her own bed, reading the latest issue of US Weekly. “Like what?”

I start imagining all sorts of horrible things. An STD? No, she’s a virgin. She wants to leave? That would be such drama, a cast member leaving. I think we’d have to have a house meeting and everything.

“I think I have a crush on James,” she says, sounding apologetic.